* * *

I shower and dress for school, and while I’m sitting at the table trying to finish my stupid geometry homework, the maid bell starts ringing. Cedar Hill has several bells that date back to the Civil War. Each bell indicates if one of the Goodwins needs something. The chef bell, for food or coffee; the maids’, for laundry, bedding, or cleaning issues; the gardener, for gardening issues.

You know, in case there’s an emergency gardening issue.

The maid bell ringing doesn’t make any sense—none of the maids are down here right now. They’re making beds and serving breakfast and doing other things maids do. Then the phone rings. “Savannah,” Cindy says in a weak voice.

“Is something wrong with the baby?” I rush to ask.

“I’m not feeling my best…I’m so tired,” she replies. “I need you to send Paula up to work breakfast instead of me.”

“She’s not here.”

“Oh no, I just remembered it’s her day off.”

“I can come up before school—”

“No, no,” Cindy says. “Mrs. Goodwin doesn’t like it when the help track mud in the house.”

“I’ve already changed clothes.” I peek down at the pink Converse Dad gave me for Christmas last year. “I’m coming.”

I jog up to the manor house and barrel into the kitchen. Cindy’s sitting at the island, wiping sweat off her face. Jodi, the Goodwins’ chef, is frying an omelet and writing down notes at the same time.

“I can’t serve breakfast,” Cindy says, on the verge of tears. “I don’t know how I’m gonna make it another four months. I’m so tired.”

“You should take some time off.”

“I need the money,” Cindy whispers, shaking her head. “You know I need a root canal and I won’t be able to afford it for a long time and I want to buy your little sister clothes and start a savings account and—”

“Shhh,” I say soothingly. She Who Must Not Be Named should be able to take time off if she needs to. But with Dad still paying off Mom’s medical bills, having enough money to take time off seems like a fantasy. What the hell are we gonna do after she gives birth?

“Jodi? What do I do?” I ask in a harsh tone.

“Refill their coffee. Mr. Goodwin drinks his black. So does Jack. Mrs. Goodwin drinks tea. Shelby likes hot cocoa with lots of whipped cream, so make sure she has enough.”

I quickly wash my hands in the sink and take a deep breath.

“Come back to grab Shelby’s omelet,” Jodi says.

I tie on an apron and grab the coffeepot before striding into the dining room. A chandelier hangs above the table made of a deep cherry wood. Sunlight illuminates the room through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Shelby is doing the word search in today’s paper. Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin look up at me.

“Short-staffed today,” I say, holding up the coffeepot.

Mr. Goodwin sets his paperwork down. “Is everything okay?”

“Cindy’s a little under the weather. She’s really tired. And Paula has the day off.”

“Oh, of course,” Mr. Goodwin says, returning to his papers. He’s reading printouts of the Daily Racing Form. Dad and I read it every day so we can stay up-to-date on the best horses and jockeys and their news.

“Welcome to the team,” Mrs. Goodwin says, toasting me with her teacup.

“Thank you, ma’am,” I say. I saw her at the races on Sunday, but this is the first time she’s spoken to me. I can see where Jack and Shelby get their good looks from—Mrs. Goodwin is exquisite.

Jack chooses that moment to enter the dining room, looking fresh in a pair of dark jeans, cowboy boots, and an Oxford button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, of course. His hair is still wet from the shower.

He sees me standing there and stops moving. Avoids my gaze. God. This is the most. Embarrassing. Moment. Ever. He kisses his mother’s cheek before taking a seat and placing a napkin on his lap.

“Morning, sweetie,” Mrs. Goodwin says to him, smiling as she sips from her teacup. Then she goes back to sorting through the pile of mail in front of her. It’s probably invitations to charity balls, political fundraisers for her brother who’s the governor of Alabama, and cocktail parties, or it’s about her cookbook.

Apparently every year she develops recipes for a special cookbook—Entertaining with the Goodwins: Prizewinning Recipes from Prizewinning Cedar Hill Farms. She sells them for charity. We have a copy on the Hillcrest common room coffee table.

I move to pour hot coffee into Jack’s cup. Dear God, don’t let me spill.

“You know,” he says under his breath. “Just because I brought you coffee doesn’t mean you had to bring some to me.”

I freeze as Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin exchange glances with each other. I move to pour coffee in Mr. Goodwin’s cup, but he puts a hand over it.

“I’m fine. I’ve had enough.”

Jack selects a muffin from the breadbasket. “Dad, I’m selling the Big Society yearling.”

“To who?”

“Bushy Branch Farms in Georgia. Got Paulsen up to $320,000.”

“Good boy,” Mr. Goodwin says with a smile, making Jack practically glow with pride.

Jack sorts through the mail at his place setting. He opens an envelope and pulls out a card. The embossed initials on the paper read AW.

“Crap,” Jack mutters, dropping the card on the table.

“What is it, dear?” his mother asks.

“It’s just a card from Abby Winchester. I saw the AW on the front and thought it was about A&W Root Beer.”

“You goof,” Shelby says.

“I love root beer,” he replies, sounding sad and overly emotional about root beer. Boys.

Mr. Goodwin opens his mouth, presumably to talk about AW of the Abby Winchester variety, not the root beer, so I go back into the kitchen. Jodi hands me a tray loaded up with the omelet, little bowls of something I don’t recognize, and another basket of scones and muffins. I reenter the dining room to another interesting conversation.

“I want pink streaks in my hair,” Shelby says as she licks hot cocoa off her upper lip.

Mrs. Goodwin sets her letter opener down. “No.”

“C’mon! I want pink hair for my birthday! Carla got blue streaks and Whitney has purple streaks and I think I would look good with pink!”

“No,” her parents say simultaneously. Mr. Goodwin never looks up from the Daily Racing Form.

I put a bowl at each spot. It looks like some sort of wonderful egg casserole bacon mash-up? I bet it totally rocks the socks off the Fruit Loops I had for breakfast.

“Dear,” Mrs. Goodwin says to Jack, “what do you think of the cheese grits brûlée?”

He shovels it into his mouth, talking with his mouth full. “Delicious.”

She claps. “You’re not just saying that?”

Jack looks like a goddamned bulldozer scooping it up. I’d say he likes it.

“Trust us. It’s wonderful,” his father says, glancing up from his paperwork to smile.

“Maybe try adding some sour cream to the grits,” Jack says.

“I’ll tell Jodi,” Mrs. Goodwin replies, nodding as she writes a note about sour cream. “Can you look over the draft cookbook again after school?” she asks Jack.

“Of course,” he says. “I hope you added the surf ’n’ turf option like I suggested.”

He helps with the cookbook? Who knew? I thought his activities consisted of:


1. Womanizing

2. Thinking about horses

3. Torturing me

Now that they’ve been served, I hover between the kitchen and the dining room, waiting on everybody to finish. Mrs. Goodwin goes with Shelby to help her get ready for school, leaving Jack alone with his dad. I’m about to leave to go finish my math homework when I hear my name. I feel guilty for eavesdropping, but I can’t help it.

“What were you doing with Savannah Barrow this morning?” Mr. Goodwin asks.

“Trying to get Star used to the starting gate,” Jack replies.

“Is that all you were doing?”

“Yeah, I swear.”

I peek around the corner to see Jack taking a gigantic bite of muffin, so big it looks like he might choke. I lean up against the wall, making sure to keep out of sight.

“It doesn’t look good when a businessman dates his staff. Or uses them for any other activities.”

A pause. “Savannah had some ideas for training Star, that’s all.”

“Anything new?”

“Not really. Same stuff we usually do.”

“Did it work this morning?”

“The horse seemed calmer than usual. He’s been clocking excellent times during his workouts. Savannah just knows how to control him.”

“Don’t get your hopes up that Savannah can make a difference with the horse. I haven’t decided if she’s talented. I still think you should sell Star.”

I breathe in and out, suddenly panting. Please don’t sell Star. Please don’t sell Star. He might end up with a cruel owner. Just like Moonshadow. Please don’t sell Star. I can’t bear to lose one more thing.

Mr. Goodwin says, “Don’t forget, we have that dinner tonight. I’ll have Yvonne get a suit ready for you.”

I peek around the corner one more time to find Jack rubbing his eyes. He sighs, picks up the Daily Racing Form papers, and stands as he chugs the rest of his coffee.

Jack didn’t stand up for me when his father questioned my talent. I guess it’s not surprising. I just started working as an exercise rider here. I haven’t proven myself.

I slowly take off my apron.

* * *

Out the kitchen window I watch as Jack’s big shiny red Ford truck coasts down the driveway toward the main gate. I pull a deep breath and walk back into the dining room where Mr. Goodwin is poring over The Tennessean.